


Shackled

by And_all_the_other_buns



Category: Psycho-Pass
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hate Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Harm, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-27 23:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20768381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/And_all_the_other_buns/pseuds/And_all_the_other_buns
Summary: Shinya Kougami couldn't pull the trigger, and now Sibyl, unable to break Makishima despite their best efforts, has sent him to the CID as a less than willing enforcer.Or,Shinya regrets his life choices as he invites death to his bed.





	Shackled

**Author's Note:**

> Just 2,000 words of a long and involved au. I see a fair bit of Inspector Makishima but I like to be more cruel to my favorites

He couldn't stand the feeling of the shackle around his wrist. He never could. Shogo didn't even like tight cuffs from shirts or sweaters to sit too low on his arm or wrap too snug. Ankles either, thus he often shunned socks. There was just something about it that made him feel limited and constrained, nearly to the point of panic should he be in a particular mood. Choe, his Choe, he had understood, and even in the violence of their bedroom games he had always been cognizant of this limit, perhaps out of fear of Shogo's retaliation, perhaps in true tenderness. Both, Shogo would like to think, if he could be so bold. Gu-Sung would pin him down by his forearms, wrapping silk ties around his elbows or hands rather than his wrists to keep his bitch down on the bed. Indeed, Shogo could plainly see the contradiction, having no issue being truly restrained and tied up, despite not wanting his wrists bound for giving him the same feeling. He couldn't explain that away any easier than he could explain his forever pure hue. It was simply a part of him he welcomed.

However, this made life more than a little difficult for him here at the MWPSB. The iron cuff around his wrist, marking him as an enforcer, disturbed his soul even greater than the chip implanted to the back of his neck, into his spinal column, that added a nice, solid 200 to his existing Crime Coefficient. Such an exact number, such a heavy warning. If he ever reached 100 himself, if he ever hit the legal limit, a Dominator would read him at 300, and that was an end to the whole game.

Not that it was nearly as much fun now behind the walls of the CID and beneath the ever watchful eyes of big sister Sibyl.

"You keep clawing at your wrist like that you'll be spending another night in a padded room."

Beside him, fresh from a shower, Kogami toweled at his hair, bare chested and track pants hung low on his hips. A pleasant enough image but hardly enough to distract Shogo from his favorite hobby of self mutilation...oh. shit. He hadn't realized he'd drawn blood.

"It bothers me," was all Shogo could say, holding up his wrist. The iron gleaned in dim lamplight, silver and nickel and the dark glint of the screen. Below it a trail of blood ran down his arm, appearing almost black. Shogo stared transfixed as it slid, one beautiful red pearl, leaving behind it a streak up to where his own fingernails had torn at his skin. A vain attempt to rid himself of that suffocating shackle, that reminder of captivity.

Shinya barely gave a shrug, rooting around his dresser for a clean shirt.

"Tell that to your shrinks," he tossed over his shoulder. “See how much of a fuck they give about yoru mild inconvenience when you’re in med.”

Shogo gave his lover a withering look, but hadn’t the energy to keep the attitude up for long. Shinya was right, loathe as he was to admit it. He’d already gone through this bullshit once before; tearing open one's own skin was a very good way of upsetting one's therapists, second perhaps only to tearing open another’s. With sad eyes and concern, his most recent doctor had looked at his wounds, shaking his head. A very unhealthy habit, he had told Shogo. Not good at all for his Psycho-Pass.

What a farce. Half the time Shogo wasn't even sure if the therapists and psychiatrists assigned to him were actual people or simply another of Sibyl’s robots, piloted by the Brain of the Day. Try as he might he had yet to determine any real tell, any movement or twitch or glimmer in the eye that gave away the body as inorganic. And he had plenty of opportunity to try, with daily counseling sessions, weekly meetings with a doctor to monitor the absolute cocktail of medications he was being prescribed, all in the hopes of curing his unique mental illness, controlling his numbers to a manageable level and handling his more undesirable impulses. In other words, he was Sibyl’s little guinea pig and he was yet to find a way out. He could almost despise Shinya for clocking him with the barrel of his gun and turning him over to the prophetess, but he adored his hunting dog far too much.

Lying heavy against the pillows, not caring enough about his nakedness to search for his clothes, he idly watched Shinya finish getting ready for bed, checking that he had a fairly clean suit for work in the morning, setting his coffee pot, grumbling to himself as he hunted down his current book in the disarray of their- his- bedroom.

“It landed by the laundry basket,” Shogo said easily, leaning his head back against the brick wall, hair tickling over his shoulders and wondering if he would have any cuts on his face from being shoved into that very stone work just an hour ago. He imagined the looks they would receive tomorrow, hickeys over Shogo’s collar, scratches and bruises on his pale skin to bare witness to their lovemaking. Well. Shogo called it lovemaking, Shinya called it a moral failure. Didn’t matter what they called it, the end was always the same, Shogo beneath him, usually bruised, sometimes bloody, each of them locked in their personal purgatory and clutching at any scrap of salvation they could find.

Shinya followed Shogo’s direction and found his paperback, casting a judgemental eye towards him as he picked it up. Rude. It wasn’t Shgo’s fault he kept excellent track of their things. Or that he’d spent several minutes facing that particular corner of the room as Shinya pounded him into the mattress from behind. If the hound was so distraught at such a small moment of their domesticity, he could kick Shogo out to his own apartment. But they both knew that wasn't going to happen now was it? Shinya couldn’t stand an empty bed, and worse, couldn't stand not having Shogo Makishima within his sight at all times. Couldn’t plot to overthrow the government or commit acts of bioterrorism if he was being personally guarded, afterall. Or at least that's what Shinya told himself to ease the bubbling shame in his belly. It was a clean cut answer, easy to condense in 25 words or less. Far messier were the emotions that drew him to Shogo night after night, an obsession deeper than hatred and more scathingly painful than love. Need, desire, fury, nothing hit quite squarely what they worked through as they fucked each other sore and kissed the bruises afterwards.

"Go clean that," Shinya directed, slipping his book back into his nightstand. "It'll get infected otherwise."

Shogo continued to peer mildly at his wound, wondering when the pain would set in.

"You know," he said, "if it gets infected they'll probably have to remove it to treat the cut."

"And you'll be fighting a high fever."

"I once sliced off a man's fingers for trying to rob me, then gutted his corpse," he said mildly, "and a few hours later I was hospitalized with pneumonia. I'm made of stronger stuff than that, Shinya."

Long grown used to the sound of his given name on the murderers lips, he didn't even flinch. Not anymore.

"They'd strap you down and drug you before they ever took that monitor off, Shogo. Don't underestimate a system that no longer underestimates you."

Shogo looked up with a dreamy smile upon his face, blood starting to look bow in the crook of his elbow.

"Is that a warning out of concern for me, Shinya, or are you working yourself up with a peptalk? Ready to discuss plans to run away together?"

"You're lucky I'm not armed, bitch, I would paralyze you right now and lay you face down in the tub."

"I love when you take your time with foreplay."

"Fuck off."

Shogo just hummed quietly to himself, lost in the fog of sex, blood, and all the psychiatric medication coursing through his overtaxed body. So much time lost, locked away in one of Sibyl's mental health facilities had left him weakened, shaky, and he was only beginning to gain back his strength and muscle. While he loved feeling breakable beneath Shinya's powerful hands, he was looking forward to when he could give him a good fight again, matching cuts and braces on their wrists, a delicious dance of a lovers game.

"Shogo."

He didn't remember when Shinya had decided they were on a first name basis, but he loved it, and always rewarded his dogs good behavior with his attention and a soft smile.

"Hm?"

"Get your scrawny ass to the bathroom and clean that shit up."

"Or else what?"

)))(((

The alcohol fucking /burned/ as it flooded his scratches, but not nearly as much as Shinya's hand grasping hold of his forearm to keep him still over the sink. A hiss escaped Shogos lips and he felt his teeth clench against the blistering sting.

"Stop being a pussy," Shinya said, letting the first pour settle before adding another. The second wave of pain was deadened by the first, giving Shogo a moment to catch his breath.

"You have a tender streak in you," he remarked, his smirk turning to a grimace as Shinya's grip tightened to the points swore he could feel his bones touch.

"Wanna try that again?"

"You wouldn't tend my wounds if you didn't."

"I don't want you bleeding on my sheets."

"Send me back to my dorm then."

Shinya had no answer for this, and only shoved Shogo down to sit on the edge of the tub, digging in his first aid kit for gauze. Some weeks ago it had held little more than a few bandaids and outdated ointment, but ever since he took Shogo to his bed, there was ample need for wrappings, butterfly strips and antiseptic. What Shinya called catharsis, Shogo called romance. Guilt to one was simply aftercare for the other.

Shogo sat quietly at Shinya's aide as he dressed his wound, applying ointment to the raw skin and pressing carefully folded squares of gauze to absorb the blood.

"Seriously, this looks like you tried to kill yourself. Don't be surprised if you're put on watch tomorrow," he warned as he wound a strip around his arm to keep it all in place. Though he enjoyed the touch, Shogo did not enjoy the added pressure around his wrist, and tapped the fingers of his right hand against the tub with anxiety. Of course Shinya noticed, and gave him another dark look. "You seriously /are/ crazy, you know that?"

"I believe the correct term is mentally ill, Shinya," he corrected snydly. "And probably. Psychopathy, anti -social personality disorder, trauma, depression, they could toss a dozen or more labels at me to try and put me in a box, if such terms were still in use these days. But all that matters are my numbers."

Shinya paused, glancing down at his work, and then took hold of him tighter, turning his arm about and pressing the button on the side of Shogo's cuff. His ID screen illuminated their faces in its hologram, a photograph of Shogo with deep bruises under his eyes contrasting with his stiff collar and tie. Makishima Shogo, 30, born December 2nd. Blood type, ID number, the hue check that never faltered, and his false CC.

"278. Higher side for you isn't it?" He said, his voice mild but his eyes holding a grim satisfaction. 

Shogo peered at his own page, the emptiness in his amber eyes. He'd been so strung out when they took that photo, fresh from the asylum and sleepy from sedatives, that he barely remembered it. He looked at the number in bold white letters, his own altered to reach an above regulation level. 

"78 isn't so unusual for me if I'm stressed," he argued back, indicating his wrist. "The highest I've ever been at in my life was 84, not even in the red zone yet."

"Psychopath."

"Heard it before, Shinya. You aren't my psychiatrist so stop trying to diagnose me."

He sighed, turning to pack away his supplies, mumbling about needing to restock soon, since they were running low.

"Now come on, come to bed- Shogo, seriously? Do not pick at that!" He scolded, looking read to punch him, which Shogo knew he would absolutely do. Well, as lovely as a swollen lip would be tomorrow in the mirror, he decided to pass. Giving obedience to the only person he could ever bend to, Shogo stood and followed kougami, slipping naked between the sheets and wondering if tonight would be a night when Kou would reach for him. Rare as it was, he adored those nights, his arm wrapped posessively around his waist. To keep him still, Kougami swore, and Shogo did not question him.

Lights clicked out, total darkness, and the sinners lay quiet, awaiting sleep and the preview of death it brought. Shogo, once upon a time, had been a light sleeper, out for only a few hours a night. Now, sedatives and antidepressants and mood stabilizers and stimulants had him drowsy and wanting rest, eyes heavy and breathing slow within minutes. In this haze, as exhaustion called him, it was impossible to distinguish the warmth of Shinya's hand on his hip as reality or merely the edge of a dream.


End file.
